


a glimmer of potential

by TheAceApples



Series: Maul & C(l)o(nes) [7]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Awful Treatment of Clones, Fade to Black, Fashion Icon Darth Maul, GFY, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Implied/Referenced Vivisection, M/M, Not A Sith!Maul, Separatist Darth Maul, Slick Deserved Better (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheAceApples
Summary: Sergeant Slick is sent back to Kamino after the events of "Hidden Enemy." Unfortunately, his transport is raided by pirates before it gets there.
Relationships: Darth Maul/Slick
Series: Maul & C(l)o(nes) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756165
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	a glimmer of potential

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Millberry_5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Millberry_5/gifts).



> ~~Anon~~ the_writing_mill over on Tumblr asked: "How about some... Maul/Slick? Maybe in whichtimelines are messed up and Maul intercepts a communication between Slick and Ventress and goes to look for a weakness in the GAR he can exploit. And then he and Slick insult each other a lot and attempt to be villains against the GAR/Republic/Kenobi?"

Sergeant Slick—not a sergeant anymore, of course, but damned if they could take his name from him—continued to stare at the same bulkhead he'd been staring at for three days straight.

It wasn't interesting, it never changed, but there was nothing else to do on a prison transport. Back to Kamino for decommissioning, if Slick had to guess. The longnecks will be all in a tizzy to cut him open and see what made him tick. What aberration made him disregard his training and turn on the Jedi, not that _they_ would ever ask.

Slick loved his brothers, but he loved himself more; that was all there was to it.

The wall, unlike the occasional brother set to guard him, seemed equally interested in hearing his reasons as he felt in giving them, so the relationship was already the healthiest he'd ever had.

He'd ceased noticing when they dropped out of hyperspace, honestly, so the slight lurch didn't make his heart blip like it had in the beginning. It was a roundabout trip, as far as he could tell, and he was content to wait out his impending vivisection as long as he could. There was nothing he could do to _prolong_ it, of course, but he could enjoy what little time he had left.

A favorite pastime in the black was to revisit old fantasies. They were thin, careworn things, but once upon a time, Slick had relished the thought of what his life could be after the war. He'd think about where he could live and what kind of trade he might learn out in the real galaxy; he'd even indulged the thought of a family, a spouse or two or three and a passel of little cadets. All nonsense that he would never have been able to do, even if he _hadn't_ been outmaneuvered by the Commander and Captain, but. He'd thought, once, that he _might,_ bittersweet as the idea had been even then.

He knew, too, the very second he'd shaken hands with the Separatists, that he'd never seen the outside of the G.A.R. Or, rather, if he _did,_ then it wouldn't be for long.

The Separatists didn't care for clones any more than the Jedi did. But he'd looked into the eyes of their liaison and taken the deal, anyway. He didn't have a choice.

He'd _never_ had a choice, but it felt so stark just then and he just wanted _out_ before he died as canon-fodder for their banthashit war. If he died on the way out, he'd figured, then at least he hadn't looked opportunity to save himself in the eye and spat in its face. At least he could say that much for himself. He hadn't just given up and _let_ himself stay a slave. He had that much...

 _The very_ definition _of cold comfort,_ Slick thought sullenly, moving from sitting against the wall to lying down in his cot.

It wasn't an iota more interesting, he acknowledged, but it was a change, even if only by technicality.

 _"You,"_ a cultured and _highly_ alarming voice declared as the door to his little cell slid unexpectedly open, "are an _exceptionally_ difficult being to get ahold of, Sergeant."

Sitting up so fast it made him the slightest bit woozy, Slick stared at the black-and-red patterned face of his Separatist liaison, noting a very dull kind of horror as it slowly began to mount.

Viscount Maul of Serenno, clad in his signature smirk and sleek black dress and flashing golden jewelry, stood impatiently out in the corridor, like a specter of Slick's poor choices come back to haunt him. He narrowed his eyes as Slick remained motionless, lights catching on the pitch black gems set into the cuff around his ear. That he was here felt like the plot of a bad holoprogram, trash of the kind that Chopper liked to read, when he wasn't taking war trophies: the rakishly beautiful minor nobility swanning in to rescue the traitor clone in over his head.

It was _literally_ something he'd caught Chopper reading once.

Violet eyes looked him up and down, unimpressed by his utter lack of—gratitude? Fawning? Or maybe just reaction. Slick wasn't positive that it was actually happening, in all honestly. He'd lucid dreamed before and he _had_ been indulging in ridiculous fantasies, last he recalled.

"They really dressed you in that, love? It's a crime against all sapient life. Do let me get you out of it once we leave here, won't you?"

Slick blinked, violently. Then he scowled and got to his feet. No mistaking that kriffing attitude for anything other than reality. "I'm a prisoner, a traitor who got brothers killed," he snarled, pushing the amused viscount out of his way. "They really don't care if I appeal to anyone's aesthetic senses."

"Quite the shame..." the viscount murmured as Slick started down the hallway, only to be brought up short by the bodies of his guards slumped on the ground.

They looked like puppets with their strings cut and Slick's stomach rebelled at the comparison. "Are they—" he said, unable to complete the question.

The viscount waved a dismissive hand and tried to herd him along, unbothered by his warning hiss. "Stunned only, of course, love. I remember your conditions quite... _vividly,_ Sergeant." His voice curled around the word breathily, an invitation and performance, all at once.

Slick rolled his eyes and kept moving. He weighed the likelihood of being able to hunt down his armor before the incursion was detected and didn't like the odds. As a clone, he felt naked with it, and even moreso with only his flimsi prison garb. He wasn't even allowed to keep his blacks, the bastards.

"Which way," he asked curtly, ignoring the viscount's increasing attempts to fluster him and following the directions he let slip in-between the come-ons. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Oh, I could be _so much more,_ if only you'd let me, Sergeant," he purred in response. Then he nudged Slick's arm and pointed towards the correct airlock. "Just down there, love."

Twitching at how easy their escape was so far, Slick darted into it and input a fellow sergeant's codes to allow the small craft to disembark. The command went through and he ignored the viscount's amused chuckles as they entered the ship and disengaged as quickly as possible; he didn't breathe any easier until they were safely ensconced in hyperspace, at which point an entirely separate issue arose.

His hands clenched reflexively on the controls before he forced them open and turned to face the Separatist in the co-pilot's seat. "So," he said tensely, "what is this going to cost me, Viscount? This"—he grimaced and twirled a hand through the air—"rescue."

"I've told you before, Sergeant, you can just call me 'Maul,'" the viscount replied, his tone grandiose as always but his eyes telling a different story. He looked at Slick the same way a lot of nat-borns looked at his brothers: covetous and hungry, the way predators looked at prey. "And, if you'll recall, part of our deal _specified_ your retirement from the Republic military forces. One can hardly call execution the same as thing as freedom from bondage. You fulfilled your end of the bargain admirably, and thus it was my turn to do the same." The sly edge left his expression in favor of his usual genial mask, this time with an affected pout. "Don't tell me you'd rather I left you in that dreary cell. You'll hurt my feelings, my love."

Slick breathed slowly through his nose and thought his current plan of action through. "You promised me a change of clothes?" he forced out. This could be a very big mistake or his saving grace. "Or will _that_ cost me something too?"

"A kiss?" the viscount suggested playfully but rose from his seat and headed for the sleeping area without waiting for an answer. Slick rolled his eyes and followed without comment. "Come on, love, I'll get you out of that horrific get-up with pleasure."

The craft was a small, one-being transport and as such had only one bed and a tiny excuse for a refresher. It also, to Slick's reluctant amusement, had a carry-on box filled with slinky, colorful bits of fabric that the viscount rifled through with sotto voce commentary. He held up something silky and sapphire blue with a noise of triumph, then turned and held it out to Slick, looking pleased with himself.

Slick took the cloth, carefully placed it aside, then stepped forward and pushed the viscount down onto the bed.

He made a small noise of surprise at the move then fell silent and watched as Slick pulled his shirt over his head and got on top of him, violet eyes wide with shock.

"'With pleasure,' you said," Slick murmured, catching Maul's jaw and brushing their mouths together teasingly. He reveled in the almost-moan that small action elicited. "You know, you've been writing a lot of checks that you haven't been cashing, Viscount."

Maul hummed, so high-pitched it was almost a squeak. "Not for lack of trying, I assure you, Sergeant," he said, breathless and stuttering. His mask wasn't so smooth with a few dozen kilos of soldier slung across his hips, evidently.

There was a kind of honesty in it that Slick appreciated.

"Do you know my name, _love?"_ he whispered against Maul's lips, and smiled at the trembling noise of affirmation. "Good. Then _use it,"_ he said, and got to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Consistent characterization? Established backstory? I don't know her. So anyway Viscount Maul Dooku, adopted heir to Count Dooku, leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems *jazzhands*


End file.
